


Darling, You're Just Trash

by hocotate



Series: Oneshots [3]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Aphrodisiacs, Crossdressing, M/M, Smut, Voyeurism, sexing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-02
Packaged: 2018-10-13 21:38:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10522416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hocotate/pseuds/hocotate
Summary: Yixing is a dancer at a fancy club, and Sehun loves to watch him perform.





	

  
Sehun likes to watch Yixing perform. The liquid movements are like those of a professional, the steady slide down that thin, shiny pole being sinful enough to pay for a one way ticket down to the second circle of hell. It is mesmerizing, the way he moves, the reason for half-lidded eyes to widen with focus despite the inebriation of the many men possessing them. Tips are prohibited but the crowd doesn’t mind, for the women are just trinkets on display in the eyes of those men who are married, yet whistling.  
  
Yixing’s body isn’t luscious like the others’, and neither is his face particularly feminine. It’s true that he has been blessed with enough androgynous features to hide beneath those layers of powder and lashes, but he is any way nothing out of the ordinary. Sehun has slept with many people, watched even more, so he does better than any man know how to recognise true beauty. He knows what makes a woman stand out among others, has seen bodies looking as if they were sculptured by the gods, and thus does his trained eye conclude that Yixing isn’t extraordinaire at all.  
  
Yet, he can’t stop watching.  
  
They speak with each other every other night, socialize under emeralite lamps after Yixing’s performance is over and done. They order fancy drinks that are on Sehun while conversing about the show, flirting casually until the bar closes and the burlesque artist drops her last feather on stage. The salon is almost empty by the time they go their separate ways, the bartender being the only one to witness them share flirty goodnights over chaste pecks on cheeks.  
  
Sehun loves the smell of lipstick and Yixing’s glass is stained by it, its almost burnt colour matching that of their 19th century Château Lafite. There are hands travelling secretly over thighs, fingers lingering just long enough to tug at the hem of Yixing’s sheer, black stockings. Nervous laughter bounce between them when the dancer lowers his head and turns scarlet, allowing the long, raven strands of his budget wig to accentuate the softness of his otherwise masculine features.  
  
He likes it, Sehun thinks; the forbidden touches, the flattering words. “It’s a shame to keep such a pretty girl at a shabby place like this,” is the lie whispered countless times against Yixing’s neck that smells like L’Heure Bleue mixed with yesterday’s N°5, and no amount of carefully layered makeup can hide the extra blush caused by that elaborate compliment.  
  
Maybe Yixing really believes it, that Sehun has no clue what hides between those shaved, shimmery legs of his. Perhaps is he just as foolish as all the other people his nighttime admirer has seduced throughout the years; too tipsy see past his own infatuation, too shy to ask if there comes another step. Yixing cannot see himself through the eyes of his admirer, and neither he is aware of what motives are behind those many glasses of unoaked wine. It is true that he has been fooled by Sehun whose savoir-faire is as rehearsed as any sensuous twirl, that he has fallen irrevocably for those seemingly heartfelt words of admiration. He is deceived by appearance and driven by longing, yet equally afraid to reveal his own true self, the bulge held back by restrictive tape.  
  
Regardless of what, he is an attraction worth paying for; he is the cynosure of every evening, with his ineffable magnetism calling for more than just a public show. His lipstick might be smudged at times, his burgundy eyeshadow caked beneath his eyes, but the way he keeps his secret hidden as if Sehun won’t find out is what prevents said man from ever stop watching.  
  
“See you again,” is always promised after the candles are put out and the last bottle of Dom Pérignon has been poured down the drain. Money is spent but never wasted because although they part ways with nothing but pecks, what follows their time of night is to Sehun more satisfying than a hundred salaries burnt on champagne.  
  
They bid adieu and Yixing strides away, his gait a bit uneven by one too many glasses. His high heels clack until he reaches the dressing room, supposedly alone since the other performers have long since left. There is serenity residing between those mildewy walls, a sense of security when he removes his dress and yawns. Reveries about some wealthy, handsome man are the only thing on his mind when he uncovers himself, still inebriated and besotted beyond measure. Stretching his legs as if he isn’t on display, he kicks his shoes off before lying down to rest for a while.  
  
What he doesn’t know is that he isn’t alone, that Sehun never leaves until the stockings are discarded and his skin is left bare. He doesn't know who hides behind the drapery, who strokes himself empty to the sight of a naked young man untucking and washing. He doesn't know that Sehun likes to watch just a little more than his actual performance, that secrets are to him more arousing than any rehearsed dance.  
  
  
  
Evenings pass by with La Fontaine de La Pouyade and with touches as improper as during any other night. Whispers are breathed against skin that needs touching, and eventually, watching isn’t enough anymore.  
  
Sight is the most important sense, the very cornerstone of what has hitherto been Sehun’s source of twisted satisfaction. Eyes aren’t always windows, but in this case his tools, what he relies on for fulfilment and a perverted peace of mind. He loves to watch that which isn’t his to watch, but now he finds himself craving for more than just a peek.  
  
This is why he on one final night pours Yixing another glass of champagne, his fingers ghosting over desired thighs as a distraction from the substance that is added to the drink. There are words feigned worry flowing from his lips when he pulls the dancer up to stand, advising him to return backstage since his “eyes are glazed” and since “girls need to rest”. A bit disappointed, yet with a peculiar heat settling in his limbs, Yixing complies and leaves without his nightly beau.  
  
Sehun knows the corridors well, his swift steps repeated so many times that they happen automatically, guided by his muscle memory whilst powered by determination. Sneaking away for the climax of the evening, he hides behind those familiar curtains until the effects kick in and he sees Yixing sweating in inexplicable arousal.  
  
It is a sight for sore eyes, the way the dancer is panting, scared and confused. Desperate for release, still in need of stimulation, Yixing rips his dress off briskly with no control over the sudden hysteria. Tears roll down in fear and distress when anarchy starts reigning in his every limb, and when cheap faux satin gets dropped to the chaise longue, he lets himself fall down with it.  
  
He reaches down to stroke through lace, unable to curb his unquenchable thirst. Desperation is next to palpable and Sehun wonders if he could taste it on those nipples, feel it with his fingers brushing against those stiff, pink buds. There is silence save for breathing and moaning, soft snivels being the product of shame, a soft melody sung by Yixing who is losing it.  
  
Secret eyefuls turn into tentative steps as Sehun watches from behind those drapes, saliva filling the hollows of his mouth. His hands are impatient as so is his dick which wants nothing more than to slide in between those cheeks, to get pushed inside that writhing person whose lips are spilling arrhythmic gasps. The events to come are in no way clear to him who lies shivering under influence and arousal, and that does, if possible, give birth to an even greater heat in Sehun’s gut.  
  
He keeps watching for the longest of minutes, his own hunger growing exponentially. One and later three lean fingers are buried inside the other who clearly wants more, the lace pushed aside since Sehun’s now rampant aphrodisiac won’t give Yixing time to rip the last remaining fabric off. There is urgency, distinctly, embodied by moans that sound as pitiful as they are unbridled.  
  
Unable to stand it when the sight becomes too much, Sehun reveals himself and flashes a smile. He knows that he is needed, that he is just in time; late enough to not get thrown out, yet early enough to be part of the finale. Approaching steadily, he reaches out his hand as a proffer, the same one that has so many times swept carefully over Yixing’s thighs and delicate shoulders.  
  
Moans are discontinued when Yixing gapes at him in shock and trembles, but rejection never comes, nor any sign of reluctance whatsoever. Sehun wouldn’t have obeyed a refusal since his father never taught him to take no for an answer, but consent is still surprisingly relieving in light of how many nights have been spent together as a buildup. He is, moreover, not in the mood for bloodshed, and while he longs to see the man before him ruined, he doesn’t feel like bruising those thin, pretty wrists.  
  
Drool highlights Yixing’s lips when he shuts his eyes and lets himself get taken, his virginity stolen by a well-disguised villain. Tendrils of synthetic hair are tangled beneath him, some silky strands sticking to his face which is slick with sweat after just a minute of pain. There is regret, unfortunately, yet a great deal of relish since the peak of this evening is also becoming the very summit of their nightly flirting.  
  
The tears never cease to fall in spite of Sehun spoiling his senses, yet Yixing’s lips curl at the moment his pain starts dissolving into pleasure. An eager tongue is marking his chest before travelling up to slide over clavicles, teeth biting into skin that has never before been tasted or even touched. He gasps when sharp nails sink into his hipbones, keeping him in place, and when he looks up at the man who always flatters him, he feels another kind of warmth settle in his belly.  
  
Sehun is looking down at him with eyes that hold no evident blame, not in any way surprised to have found not a woman in this room, but a man. He is pushing inside repeatedly while licking, taking Yixing’s tongue with his and sucking. He is fucking, kissing, touching, and stealing, all at once and without inhibitions.  
  
Aflush and almost shaking, Yixing swallows every question. Words are redundant when legs are spread wide, for what better way of expressing oneself is there than moaning aloud in pace with the thrusts? This is the true, uncensored version of himself, after all, his own scratching hands speaking on behalf of his mind that has until now wanted nothing more than Sehun’s arms wrapped gently around him. He doesn't know what is happening or why, what Sehun was doing behind those curtains, but neither does he care now when their bodies are connected.  
  
He is close to screaming when he gets flipped around and pushed into again, pain returning along with cramps in his legs. Unaware of that the mousseux was just a weapon, spiked for the purpose of turning him acquiescent, he bites his own lip and tries to revel in the way his fingers entwine with Sehun’s above his head. It hurts, yet not, for the slide in and out spawns more than just a physical sensation.  
  
His focus revolves around a single, golden point, one from which rays shoot through him when Sehun digs deeper and grunts. There is metal on his tongue and ache in his limbs, a sensational confusion when he gets beleaguered and claimed. His body is the other’s demesne, not his own with which he can choose to escape, but little does it matter since he for once in his life feels wanted and worthy.  
  
Crying softly as if in joy and not torment, he wonders for a second if his makeup is still intact. He can feel the tears still running down his cheeks, can taste the strands of his wig when he gasps, but he is pressed against the chaise longue and thus unable to make out any stains. If his nails had been painted, the polish had been gone by now because no matter how elegant he wishes to come across, he can’t afford any quality products. He is but a cheap performer when all pretensions are set aside, a wanton virgin having sought the attention of a man affluent enough to waste money on champagne.  
  
Biting into his tongue this time, he catches the sound of Sehun’s rhythmic rasping. There aren’t any words, no flattering phrases that would usually feel so good whispered against his skin. Only snivels replace his own previous moans when he realises just how pathetic he must have sounded, and he opts to now remain restrictive of his vocals, lest this delightful nightmare might come to an end.  
  
Sehun, of course, is far up among the clouds, taking whatever he wants without caring about what reason might lie behind Yixing’s tears and sudden silence. This is a night of indulgence, after all, of actualizing fantasies that are in others’ eyes nothing but sick. He has been watching this man in secret for ages, has stroked himself to the sight of him undressing. For so long has he longed to enter him raw, to have him all exposed and shivering, and now his dreams have finally been made true.  
  
Yixing with his perfume faded smells more like petrichor than feigned sophistication. It might just be the heat of the moment, however, the result of Sehun having drunk the aphrodisiac straight from Yixing’s wine stained lips that has him shut his own eyes in unrelenting ecstasy. Inhaling the scent like one would sniff powder, he smiles in satisfaction that is nonetheless ethereal. With another sharp thrust, he drops that grin, deep inside knowing that he will soon enough replace this man with someone much more beautiful and worthy of his touches.  
  
He flips him back around, nevertheless expecting to find something which will have him linger past this unholy fling. It is, in the end, but wishful thinking, the consequence of greed and lust intensified by countless nights of secret watching. Looking down at Yixing who lies limp, he sighs disappointedly, a bit underwhelmed by the face beneath him. Still inside, he captures those writhen lips, no longer enthralled by the timorous dancer whose poorly hidden secret has been the reason for this lechery.  
  
Obsession is the fruit of pipe dreams, of believing in some surprise beneath those layers of powder and seductive dance moves. It has been long since Sehun concluded that Yixing wasn’t crafted by the gods, yet it has taken him until this heated point to realise that the mysterious semblance was just an illusion. He has always been aware of that the other is just a fool, but it isn’t until now that he can fully see that Yixing’s elegance has been but a mask plastered on in order to feel loved and wanted by some stranger paying for his expensive drinks.  
  
Now that Sehun is finally touching the body having hidden beneath those stockings and that dress, he feels the previous excitement transform into disenchantment. His taste requires more than just watching, yet he knows that he should have expected a disappointment. Yixing is now revealed entirely, no longer enticing, and the sensation caused by him gasping in between the kisses isn’t nearly enough to subtract from this letdown.  
  
There is nothing sempiternal about Yixing, nothing fey about that spoiled body which is soon to taste the bitterness of cum.  
  
The final kiss tastes like oxidised wine, and Sehun spills his seed inside without trying to hold out or even savour the moment. Ignoring the whimpers following his orgasm, he pulls out and sighs as if he paid for a service which turned out to be a hoax.  
  
Collapsing beside Yixing down whose face cheap makeup is running, he curses himself for having rushed this decision, for having crossed that line without preparing for disappointment. Watching without tasting was harmless to his expectations, hence should he have stayed behind those curtains forever. A spectator is what he is, after all, a shameless libertine with no regards for the integrity of the underprivileged. Watching is what he does, secretly or blatantly, projecting something amazing on those who fall victims to his starving gaze.  
  
What little remains of his arousal dies when Yixing hums peacefully beside him, the latter spread out bare and bruised over the stained chaise longue. There is stillness in the air, their fingers linking together loosely, but Yixing never orgasmed, and Sehun doesn’t care.  
  
“Will you come here tomorrow?” he asks, clinging to Sehun as if he is afraid of letting go. With half-lidded eyes, he curls his lips in hope that is fueled by naiveté, with that pathetic smile bringing light to the dullness of his mind. He waits for an answer, patiently yet not, with his almost dried tears looking as if he actually believes that his conqueror will return.  
  
He probably knows, though, deep inside, that his melancholic plea is all in vain. Despite his foolishness, he is probably aware of that the murmurous whispers leaving Sehun’s lips in response are just treacherous nonsense devoid of any promises. Still, he giggles as if struck by post-orgasmic euphoria, allowing his fingers to travel languidly over Sehun’s clothed chest to sneak a few in between the buttons that have gone undone.  
  
“I’ll wait for you here,” he hums while blinking, his eyes falling shut by the end of that sentence. “Every night.“  
  
His wig sits askew and mascara wets his cheeks, making him look more like some cheap corner whore than the desired dancer sipping from glasses of fermented Sauvignon. He looks uglier than ever, with his swollen lips that are now blemished by lust, with his body all tainted and spoiled once and for all. He has been but a disposable, now used and past his prime, and no amount of expensive fragrances will help him smell as sweet as he used to look from behind those curtains.  
  
He keeps smiling like some infatuated adolescent, confirming that he isn’t just hideous, but stupid as well. Nuzzling into Sehun’s neck as if he didn’t just get fucked by a stranger, he causes said stranger to shudder in revulsion and shove him away with enough force to cause tears.  
  
Now that Sehun has had a taste of that filth, he knows for sure that his appetite won’t return.  
  
He rises to his feet without any definite answer, doing his belt while feeling unsurprisingly unsatisfied. What they have has been but a dalliance, nothing worth keeping or even recalling in the future, and while he surely will miss this lecherous game, his interest is as evanescent as a deathbed flower.  
  
Watching his own cum run down Yixing’s groin and thighs, he turns his back around admires himself. Pride mixes with disgust towards the other when he catches a peek of the scene in the mirror, his smile plastered on, yet never disappearing.  
  
Perhaps Yixing still has hope where he lies, praying for words of any kind. There might come a mondegreen if Sehun is to speak, something which would delay the ultimate realisation. The latter, however, holds irrevocable insouciance, his lips now sealed while tasting of lipstick.  
  
He has granted the slut with intimacy and kisses; now there is nothing left for him to gain.  
  
Wiping his lips with a handkerchief which will later get tossed to the ground and stepped on, he exits the room while ignoring the snivels. Shutting the door without looking back, he wonders with a chuckle how many lonely nights it will take Yixing to realise that his most avid spectator has moved on to someone else.

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: aphrodisiac, voyeurism, monster. Comments are much appreciated!


End file.
